


Why we pay

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bears, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Gordlock - Freeform, Gotham is for lovers, Hair Kink, Hand Jobs, Harvey deserves to be spoilt, M/M, Naked Male Clothed Male, Prostitution, Rimming, Roleplay, Size Kink, Spanking, Strip Search, body search, dom Jim Gordon, sub Harvey Bullock, that escalated quickly, they both deserve to be spoilt tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 04:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: Jim Gordon wonders why a man like Harvey Bullock pays professionals for sex.Things escalate quickly.My first Gotham fic (so of course I dive straight into the filth) so I hope I've not messed them up too much. I just needed outlet for my sudden and huge crush on Harvey. Rating for chapter 2 which I'm agonising too much over in edit.Tentatively gifted to falsteloj as a completely inadequate thank you for above-and-beyond services to Gordlock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tunglo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunglo/gifts).



"Harvey?" Jim asks, one night when they're six drinks deep, trying to forget the messy mountain of red tape that awaits from their latest case. "Why do you pay for it?"

It's out before Jim can stop himself, and isn't that his problem? Always too honest: in a job like his, it's practically a death sentence.

"Is that a philosophical question? Because if it is, ask me again in the morning." Harvey takes another swallow of beer and Jim watches: the bob of his furred throat, his thick fingers curled around the bottle. There is really no logical reason that a man like Harvey Bullock should have to pay to get laid. Yet Jim's mind replays earlier that day, the confidential way Harvey leaned in to question the two sex workers who'd witnessed their suspect talking to the victim. How they'd talk to him only.

  
He should drop it. But dropping it has never been in Jim's nature, even while he winces as he prods, "Girls. Working girls."

  
Harvey snorts a surprised little laugh. Sounds almost delighted, like finally Jim has had enough to drink to broach his favourite subject. "Working _people_ , Jim. Let's not be sexist about this."

  
It's all a joke to him. But the words still send an instant thrill coursing down Jim's spine. Harvey's sly sideways glance might mean he's trying to get a rise. Or... Jim's imagining it, certainly, when the next swallow of beer has Harvey's mouth lingering on the rim of the bottle, tongue flicking subtly, lips sucking. He shifts a little in his seat.  
"Alright. Working people. Why do you pay? Even _you_ can't be that hard pressed to find a date."

  
Harvey laughs in earnest at that, crinkled eyes and bright flash of teeth, and there's that hand clapping against Jim's shoulder, big broad palm so warm he can feel it through his jacket.  
"I like it." Harvey shrugs. Jim raises his eyebrows, and Harvey pulls a face. "It's fun."

  
"It's more 'fun' if you pay?"

  
"It's less pressure if you pay. Oh, don't look at me like that. I don't mean..."

  
"You don't have to make an effort?" The booze is loosening both of their tongues, clearly, but that's hit a nerve. Harvey's brow creases into a frown.

  
"Listen, I don't expect _you_ ," he puts a slight inflection on 'you' that Jim isn't entirely sure he likes, "to understand. But when it's business, when it's a business transaction, it's easier to think about yourself. D'ya get me? You know they're getting something out of it already, so you can ask for whatever you want." He sniffs, raises his beer again and doesn’t meet Jim’s eye. “Otherwise, I’m a goddamn martyr to my own generosity, if you catch my drift.”

  
'They' not 'she'. Is he reading too much into it? He meets Harvey's gaze and forces himself to not look away, even as his mind whirls with the concept of Harvey’s _generosity_ between the sheets. The colour in Harvey's cheeks is surely just the drink. The heat of discussion, or whatever this is. "You must have some pretty specific requirements," he hears himself say, and Harvey smirks.

  
"Wouldn't you like to know?"

  
_Yes_ , screams a voice in Jim's heart. What actually proceeds from his mouth is, "Pay me."

  
_No no no no no_ howls his internal monologue. But it's almost worth it for the way Harvey's face falls, how he veritably goggles in surprise so Jim can't hold in a little laugh. It's fine. He surely, certainly thinks that moment of too much drunken honesty was just banter to wrong-foot him. But then Harvey is digging in his pants pocket and depositing a fistful of change and crumpled bills on the sticky table-top.

  
"What does eight dollars fifty two get me?"

  
So this is a game of chicken, now. The alcohol courses through Jim's blood, pounding, but that's not what's making his head reel. Harvey's gaze is direct enough to make him dizzy, his lips pursing and chin tilting up in challenge and god help him, Jim wants to kiss that smug look right off his face. It feels unreal as Jim leans in: everything in this damn city feels unreal these days; too fast and too brash, dangerous and out of control. And it's brief, so brief, but he swears, he knows, that he feels Harvey's lips part beneath his in something a little more than a shocked gasp. And when he pulls back, Harvey leans after him, just a little, and the glazed look in his eyes is like drugs. Jim grabs, haphazardly, a handful of bills and coins off the table, and slips from the booth, calling back over his shoulder, his voice a lot steadier than he feels, "Next time, bring some twenties."

  
  
*

  
The next day Harvey is looking at him with a mixture of wariness, curiosity and something that appears distractingly like longing and Jim spends a flustered morning alternating between the desire to laugh and the desire to throw himself to his knees and apologise unreservedly. What had he been thinking? The answer, of course, was that he hadn't been thinking at all, and that way danger lies, when you disengage and operate on blind desire instead of logic.   
Logically, Jim tells himself, it isn't like he's killed someone. This is Harvey. They’ve got past worse. They'll get past this. Somehow.

  
"Hey," Harvey says, sidling up to him at the burger van when Jim goes to fetch his lunchtime coffee. He looks so shifty that Jim has to hold in a bubble of nervous laughter again. "Look, I know you're having your fun at my expense and that's fine. I can take a joke."

  
"I'm not laughing at you," Jim says, guiltily. And it's true, mostly. The thought of Harvey Bullock paying to fuck him is absolutely not a laughing matter, and he swallows tightly, transferring his coffee cup from one hand to the other. He clears his throat. "I was just trying to understand, and then things..." Got out of hand.

  
Harvey's voice lowers, and he's clearly aiming for discretion, but the way that involves him crowding closer, invading Jim's personal space, so much taller and broader than Jim, his hair falling in his face as he bends to murmur, is distracting to say the least. "Listen. Jim. I trust you. I don't want you to think bad of me, for that, that thing I pulled last night..."  
That _you_ pulled? Jim blinks up at him, incredulous, and god they're so close right now: the memory of Harvey chasing his lips blazes in his head. "I just. I know I can be an asshole and I always gotta have the last word. Don't make me say it."

  
"Say what?" _That you **wanted** to? Wanted **me**? _ His voice comes out shaky. 

  
Harvey frowns. "Say sorry."

  
Even now in the cold, sober light of day, Jim can't understand. These feelings, they've crept up on him. And even now he can objectively see Harvey for what he is: he's a slob and a corner cutter, working by Gotham codes of whatever gets us by. He’s a drunk, a bent cop, and probably a total pervert to cap it all. He's loyal and caring and strangely noble. He's so goddamn handsome, funny, kind...   
"Why would you say sorry? You have nothing to apologise for."

  
That disbelieving frown again. "You made a joke. I took it too far. Goaded you. I shouldn't do that with-"

  
"I wasn't joking."

  
Harvey's mouth snaps shut, and he gets that shell-shocked expression again and the moment stretches so excruciatingly thin that Jim's coffee is burning his hand through the thin cardboard cup.  
"Well. In that case."

  
" _I'm_ sorry, Harvey."

  
"No. Don't be." He looks almost pained, like he's grasping for something, some wisp of feeling, just out of reach. "Look, I don't wanna make this weird, but if you're sayin' you wanna..."

  
"I want to..?"

  
"Hey, I'm a discreet guy. You know it." Jim has never seen Harvey look quite so out of his depth and it sends a strange thrill of power through him, that he can do this to this man, his partner, someone he cares for deeply, simply by... surprising him.

  
"You never answered my question. Your specific requirements." Jim's voice has dropped to a whisper. He doesn't fail to notice how Harvey's teeth graze his lower lip.

  
"Don't make it sound fruity. Plenty of guys like to be, y’know. Bossed around a bit in the bedroom. It's perfectly normal."

  
"It is." Jim can feel his own pulse, chugging strong and steady in his throat. "Are you busy tonight, after work? I have some case files I need to drop off at your apartment."  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just filth. Self-indulgent filth. Enjoy?

This kind of thing has always seemed abstractly funny to Jim, something belonging to the kind of murky world of key parties and glory holes that he half suspects Harvey inhabits. Yet now, it doesn't feel funny. Now, as Jim strides down the hallway of Harvey's building, like he's walking in a dream, it feels strangely natural.

Harvey looks actually surprised when he answers Jim's brisk knock on the door. And Jim has timed it just right, because Harvey's evidently only just got home himself: he's still wearing his hat and jacket. When he spots the stack of manila folders tucked under Jim's arm, his face falls so obviously that Jim has to hold back nervous laughter again.

"You weren't kidding about those files, huh?" He stands back to let Jim pass, into the familiar disarray of Harvey's apartment. "I bet you actually serve your dates coffee when you take 'em back to your place too, don't ya?"

The disappointment in his tone is enough to set Jim's heart racing. _Harvey wants this. Wants **him**._ And suddenly he's unmoored, floundering out of his depth, but still determined. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Harvey runs a hand over his beard and sighs. "Nothing, never mind. What you got for me?"

 _So much_ , Jim thinks, but Harvey is nodding at the files. Mind back on the job in hand: Jim coaxes his face into his best expression of stern displeasure, and tosses the stack of folders onto Harvey's sagging couch; they slither immediately onto the floor, but Jim ignores it. "Those case files. Were supposed to be written up. By last Monday."

Harvey's brow creases into a frown that almost makes Jim want to give up instantly. He pushes the feeling down.

Crosses his arms and widens his stance, as Harvey exclaims, "The Giuliano case? They were done by last Monday!"

"You call that unintelligible mess _done_? Did you write them in the bar?"

 _Too far_? Harvey's expression looks truly a little wounded: Jim is about to back down and come clean, when;

"You know what? Screw you. Those files are freakin' perfect. Listen Jim, I get it, you're under a lot of pressure, and if you wanna talk-"

"Screw you?" Jim repeats. And there's evidently something in his tone that makes Harvey falter and quiet. "Is that how you address your superior officers, Detective Bullock?"

He takes a step towards Harvey and Harvey looks one heartbeat away from turning and running, and it's that same combination of hilarious and downright hot that's been tormenting Jim all day. He watches as Harvey nervously licks his lips.

"This is... kinda weird. You're my commanding officer and-"

"That's right. I am your commanding officer and I'd call that insubordination. Wouldn't you?"

That's it. The precise moment when the penny drops, Harvey's expression going soft, his eyes heavy lidded, before he tilts his chin up and says, "I'd call it, shove your insubordination where the sun don't shine. Captain, _sir_."

 

Jim's heart drops to his stomach, a sick, heady kind of excitement that he can't recall when he last felt it. "That's enough. Hands against the wall, detective. Spread your legs."

It feels more like the adrenaline rush of a crime scene than the anticipation of a date, but - something more. Watching Harvey turn, place his palms flat against his own apartment wall, bracing for Jim's inspection, has Jim hard before he's even touched him.

"You know, if you wanted to cop a feel, you coulda just asked," Harvey drawls, as Jim runs shaking palms across the broad planes of his back, down the backs of his thighs, but it soon turns to a choked groan as Jim's hand reaches between his legs, palming at the rapidly hardening bulge in Harvey's slacks.

"I'd advise you to stop speaking now," Jim replies, frostily, feeling anything but. "Turn around. Hands behind your head."

Harvey turns. Puts his hands on his head. Obedient. Complicit. It tugs a thread inside Jim he's never truly felt in this context before. His own hands tremble as he places them back on Harvey's sides, shaking - both of them are shaking. Harvey feels warm through the thin fabric of his ugly poly blend shirt as Jim slides his palms beneath his suit jacket. Warm and big - bulky, solid. His shirt feels damp beneath his arms and how is _that_ a turn-on now?  He's standing so close, the heat pouring off him, the fragrance of his cologne and soap and sweat, and when Jim turns his head his lips almost graze Harvey's cheek and when their eyes meet Jim feels breathless like he's been shot.

 

There's nothing procedure about this. No respectful and swift running the backs of his hands across the suspect. Jim touches, and he likes it. Likes Harvey's response; the quickening of his breath, the shifting of his stance as he shuffles his legs a little wider, until Jim is outright groping, taking his fill, and Harvey says, "At least tell me you love me first," and it's all too easy to forget it's just one of his predictable quips. 

"One concealed firearm." Jim divests him of his sidearm, lays it on the table by the door, next to Harvey's keys. And Harvey is breathing heavy above him, all constrained force and sizzling nerves. "It's not looking good for you, detective." Jim drops to a crouch, running hands down the length of Harvey's legs, first one, then the other. He glances up. Sees Harvey gazing down at him, lips parted and eyes dark with undisguised lust. Slips a hand beneath one pant-leg to retrieve the knife he knew would be there, and it shouldn't be suddenly, absurdly so arousing that his partner is always packing heat. Jim rises smoothly, almost nose to nose with Harvey. The knife in it's holster clinks  as he lays it next to Harvey's Smith and Wesson. "Two concealed weapons."

"C'mon, I've just come off shift," his voice has a whiny edge to it that says he almost believes this scenario.

"Are you arguing with me?"

"No, _sir_." It's just the right side of petulant to make Jim's dick throb. He holds Harvey's gaze, so close he can feel the stir of his breath, coffee-sweet, as he slides his hand between Harvey's legs and squeezes and Harvey's eyelashes flutter as he lets out an honest to God moan. "What have we here? I'd say that's a suspected third concealed weapon." He gives the rigid, heavy heat of Harvey's hard-on another squeeze before he steps back, and Harvey sways unsteadily at the loss of touch. "I'm going to have to perform a body search."

"Are you, now?" Harvey's voice sounds ruined, but still just defiant enough to give Jim that heady thrill of power.

"Yes. Hat."

"Seriously?"

"Do I have to explain this procedure to you, detective?"

"No. Sir." Harvey reaches up, snatches the hat from his head and it tests Jim's reflexes to catch it when it's flung at him. Because the way Harvey's long hair falls into his eyes is distracting, his rebellious pout is too real.

"Shoes and socks."

"We're really gonna do this?" He sounds angry. For a moment Jim's resolve falters, but then it strikes him again that Harvey can always just say no. Could simply stop. It's not like Jim has a gun to his head. He forces his voice cold and stern.

"We're really going to do this."

The first scuffed brogue is rolled across the carpet to him, sock tucked inside. Jim gives it a perfunctory look-over, glancing slyly at Harvey's bare toes clenching against the ratty carpet. Knows Harvey is watching him in turn. He swallows, mouth dry. If this is what a flash of ankle does to him...  
"Jacket. Shirt."

Harvey's glare says _go fuck yourself_ , but his thick fingers fumble on the little buttons, hands shaking and chest heaving and Jim realises he's staring. "Make sure an’ give that a good sniff while you're at it." Harvey growls as he throws it in Jim's face, crossing his arms over his undershirt-clad chest, and suddenly that's all Jim wants to do. Presses his face into the ugly poly-blend and breathes the scent of him in deep, sharp and heavy and intoxicating in a way Jim could never have predicted. Hides a smile behind it as he hears Harvey murmur, "Oh God..." his voice weak.

He looks less assured of himself as Jim folds the shirt, displaying calm he does not feel. Jim's dick throbs, greedy want clawing at panic inside him, a confusing storm of feeling. Pushing it all down, sticking to the script, feels good. All he wants to do is close the space between them. Take this man in his arms and kiss him and press against him and... Controlling it, controlling this situation feels good. Grounding. Empowering. Having Harvey do anything he tells him...  
"Pants."

Harvey swallows. His hands hover hesitantly over his belt buckle, before he complies. The quiet clink of it unbuckling sounds obscenely loud in the close atmosphere of the room, as if the air itself has been charged with electricity. His gaze rakes over Jim like a touch. And Jim looks his fill in turn, but they're both avoiding one another's eyes. Harvey's arms are thick, muscled beneath his soft edges, inked with tattoos that Jim hadn't been expecting and give him a new rush of excitement and trepidation. "Here. Are we done?" Harvey's tone is antagonistic, but a glance at his face says he really, really hopes they're not done yet. His emotions writ large - he's always easy as front page news to read. Jim relaxes a little. Forces himself to take his time, checking pockets, inspecting loose change and lighter and balled gum wrappers. Letting Harvey stew, his posture becoming more uncertain the longer Jim lets him stand there in just his underwear, hands casually clasped over his crotch.

"Undershirt."

"Jim..."

"The more you argue, the longer this will take."

When he moves his hands to tug off his undershirt, Harvey's opinion of the situation is abundantly clear, tenting the front of his briefs and Jim feels a little lightheaded. The fact that Harvey looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands surely shouldn't be the turn-on it is. "Don't feel too inadequate now, OK?" His voice wavers and Jim isn't sure if he's passing off insecurity as a joke - has heard only too well the others ribbing him about his diet - or being absolutely serious, if the size of the bulge in his underwear is to go by. And Jim would never have considered himself the type to care how endowed a partner of his was, but somehow now, because it's Harvey...

"Underwear."

"C'mon."

"Underwear, please."

Is he blushing? He's certainly flushed, and Jim can feel his own skin tingling with heat. Harvey hesitates a second, sucking at his lower lip again in that way that apparently sends Jim crazy now, his unfamiliar reticence only stoking Jim's desire, then he's bending, peering up at Jim through a curtain of hair as he slides his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs, peels them down slow in a way that must surely be intentional, baring himself fully to Jim's eager gaze.

"Happy?"

"Are _you_?" Jim retorts before his brain can filter it, and Harvey is biting his lip again, covering his modesty with clasped palms. "Hands on your head, detective."

Harvey says, "Fuck," and his voice is so soft and ragged that Jim only just hears it. His eyelids flutter closed as he raises his hands.  
Jim swallows; his throat tight.

  
It's intoxicating. Enough to steal his breath. Because Harvey looks like a different man now, here, like this, stripped of his armour, pliant and vulnerable. His head is raised, lips parted, panting softly as if he's so damn excited he can't catch his breath. His chest heaves with it, flushed pink. He's so broad it makes Jim's mouth water: wide shoulders even more evident out of his suit. Barrel chest with more unexpected tattoos, skin smooth and pale. He's so hard that he's wet with it, his big, uncut dick straining up so straight that it's resting against the curve of his belly, slicking the light trail of hair there darker. He looks like he could snap Jim in half if he wanted to, and yet here he is, naked and compliant at Jim's command.

"Look at me."

Harvey opens his eyes, and they're dark too, following Jim's every move, and for a second Jim is so struck by the scene before him that he's jolted from their game, wonders how the hell this has gone so far, wonders when the hell he started to want his partner so very desperately...

"I'm going to commence a further physical search now."

Harvey shudders and it goes straight to Jim's cock. "Sure you don't require a warrant for that, Captain?"

"If you want to stand around while I get one. Let me just go and-"

"No..." Jim ducks his head to hide the smile that Harvey's hasty answer provokes. "You do... your job."

"Thank you, detective." Jim murmurs, lips against his ear, feels that delicious shiver again, and this time allows himself to chase it, pressing his face into the crook of Harvey's neck, brushing his mouth against the soft skin there, inhaling the fragrance of his hair. Jim's skin feels like it's buzzing. Overstimulated even though he's fully clothed, he's not even been touched. Harvey is shaking. Trembling beneath him as Jim threads careful fingers into his hair, parting the strands, soft and dry as sand, in an intimate parody of checking for concealed items. His fingertips scrub gently against Harvey's scalp: Harvey moans, quietly, his lashes fluttering, but he remains obediently still, just taking it. Even when Jim winds the length of a handful of hair around his fist and gives it a long, soft tug that tips Harvey's head back, exposes the arc of his throat, mouth open around a luxurious groan. 

"There's a new procedure for oral cavity inspection. Much more thorough." Jim says. Watches Harvey struggle to swallow.

"OK." His voice is a whisper. “You’re the boss.” His eyes are full of some kind of emotion that could easily be read as terror. This moment is fragile. Not a first time - not like back at the bar - but somehow even more portentous. A line that can't be uncrossed. Harvey's eyelids slide closed as Jim moves to face him. Harvey leans in, all sweet instinct and need, his lips forming silent words that Jim can no longer see to read as Jim brushes their noses together, drawing the moment out thin as a knife edge. Revelling in control. And then he kisses him. And it's better than, sweeter and sharper than, a dam breaking under the weight of years. 

Harvey moans into his mouth, all clumsy relief, and Jim's lips feel sensitive like he can't remember, exquisitely aware of every wet caress of tongue, every unexpectedly soft brush of beard, that send shivers skating the whole surface of his skin. It's almost too good. He's going to want this too much. And big hands are cradling his face now, a thumb stroking across his cheekbone, touching him like he's something precious…

Jim pulls back, unfocused and gasping. "Did I tell you that you could lower your hands?"

"No, sir." He raises them again. Clasps them behind his own head. A docile lion. "Sorry, sir."

  
It's been a long, long time since Jim has been with a man, but everything he's missed about it is suddenly crashing back in waves.

"Turn around."

Harvey turns without protest, and Jim is mesmerised by the sturdy sweep of his back, the curve of his ass. 

"Bend over." Jim's heart is hammering, fit to break his ribs, the taste of Harvey's tongue still in his mouth. "Spread your legs." His voice sounds strange to his own ears. His pulse cantering in his throat, his wrists, his dick, as Harvey obediently braces against the wall again, his back arching. "Hold yourself open."  
  
_Does he hesitate this much with his other partners? Is he even still enjoying this?_ "Everything OK there, detective?" By some superhuman effort Jim forces his voice level, clipped, but the question is genuine. Harvey makes a breathy noise that makes Jim's insides flutter.

"Fuck, Jim... Yes... I'm... Yeah..."

And then he's bending lower, the top of his head resting against the wall to steady himself in such an undignified position. He's reaching back, pulling his cheeks apart, exposing himself entirely. Giving himself over completely.

  
Jim's head reels with it. Screaming. _God, you're perfect. How have I been so blind? I've wanted you for so long and never seen it._ This desire is overwhelming, frightening: not just the animal lust the sight is inspiring in him, but the crashing realisation that this man trusts him so unreservedly. That he really will do anything for Jim.  
And Jim wants to tell him. To shower him with praise and thank him for being here, being _this_. But the only thing that makes it past his lips is, "We appear to be without lubricant. I'll have to improvise."

Judging by Harvey's reaction, it's enough. 

The second Jim's tongue touches him, any pretense of resentment or restraint is dropped and Harvey is _loud_. "Oh fuck, oh Jim, fuck yeah, yes, please, please don't stop, like that, God, yes..." 

It's the encouragement Jim needs to just go to town, hearing his own moans unfamiliar in his ears, the filthy wet sounds as he licks sloppily into that pristine tight hole, until it softens enough that he can stuff his tongue inside, can fuck him with the tip of it, transported by the scent and the taste of him, and the noises Harvey is making are enough on their own to make him ready to come in his pants. 

When he pulls back, Harvey whines, gasping, his grip so tight on his own flesh it presses his fingertips white. He's faltering, so Jim holds him up, hands firm on shuddering thighs, and when he replaces his tongue with a finger, entering him smoothly, past the second knuckle, Harvey sobs out a breath and Jim has to close his eyes for a moment. He's so soft inside. Sleek and wet, sucking around Jim's finger like a mouth. Panting and cursing and begging as Jim teases him, plays with his asshole, and Jim thinks, _I could fuck him. Right now. He'd let me._  The gravity of that almost fells him. Harvey here, naked and unravelled. Jim fully clothed, holding all the cards. All the responsibility. He draws a slow breath.

"I'm afraid I've found evidence." He twists his finger, slick, to punctuate.

Harvey gasps, "What?" And Jim pulls out. Stands and turns him, hands steadying on his thick biceps.

"Evidence that you need further punishment."

"Oh God... I do, Jim, I really do."  
His gaze is stunned, drunk in a way Jim's never seen him before, eyes wide and soft with a kind of downright puppyish devotion that makes something twist keen and sweet in Jim's chest.

"Over here. Across my knees.

Harvey stumbles in his haste to obey, lying awkwardly prone across Jim's legs on the couch.  "Fuck, yes, boss... I've been a very bad boy..."  
It should be comical. But here, with Harvey panting and squirming and gasping on his lap, it just makes Jim so hard that he feels ready to pass out. 

"How bad?" Jim aims a gentle, experimental slap across the back of one thigh. Watches the muscle tense, the fuzzy curve of Harvey's ass jiggle, making his own untouched dick twitch in response.

"So bad," Harvey breathes. "The things I've done... I deserve this."

Jim thinks of it. Of all the things Harvey has done, for him and others. Selfless, heroic things. The next slap is harder, and the next, sounding a neat, clipped impact, his fingers trailing, teasing, in the warm cleft between Harvey's cheeks, lingering there where he's all soft, damp from Jim's spit. "Yes. You do deserve this."

The pale skin of his asscheeks is starting to pink, to warm, and Harvey is breathing through his nose now, deep and controlled, through the onslaught. Jim can feel how hard he is, pressed against Jim's thigh. Knows Harvey must be leaking against his suit pants but the notion is more encouraging than off putting. He aims one more slap, swift and sharp, and Harvey's breath punches out in a blissful little grunt.

"Turn over." His voice comes out hard, too, fingers digging into the soft curve of Harvey's hip as he rolls over, a little awkwardly in Jim's lap. Moans loud as Jim gets his hands on him, wrapping a fist around that big dick and starting up an unforgiving pace. He's so wet it makes Jim's head spin, dripping so he's slicked from tip to base and Jim doesn't even need to so much as lick his palm. And Harvey lifts his hips, pushing into his touch, shuddering and panting, eyes hidden behind the crook of his elbow where he's thrown one arm over his face. His lips part, breath shallow, his pale skin blushed rosy right down his chest and he looks so perfect that it makes something deeper in Jim's chest pinch. "Look at me."

Harvey's eyes are wide and wet when he lowers his arm, lips parting a little more, as he meets his gaze and groans, " _Jim_ ," and Jim feels the stutter and swell in his palm and then slick warm spurts welling over his fist, over and over.

 

  
"Holy tap dancing Ghost." Harvey pushes a hand through his sweaty hair. His chest is heaving, still flushed with arousal, and his eyes have that hazy look that Jim could easily get addicted to. He seems, for now, to have forgotten he's lying naked and come-dazed across Jim's lap, so Jim takes advantage by smoothing a hand up his flank. Trailing fingertips through the soft hair there. Tracing the curve of his waist and combing through the tangle of curls at the base of his softening dick. Harvey tilts his head. Pins him with a look that's downright predatory. "Your turn."

"Uh uh."

"Don't tell me you don't want it," Harvey says, wriggling his ass against the aching jut of Jim's hard-on to illustrate.

And it's so tempting, but, "That _was_ my turn." He desperately wants to get off, but this, this having the upper hand, Harvey begging for it, loving it, is worth being patient for. "Now, there's a small matter of payment."

Harvey's face falls. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

"Things on GCPD wages really that tight for you, buddy? If you need a loan..." He's half joking, half bemused, his expression beginning to close up in that familiar way. He sits up, hands going to his crotch, casting around for something to cover himself.

Jim shakes his head, his stomach lurching. He soldiers on. "The agreement was, you pay me."

"Well... OK. You got me fair and square. In which case, how much do I owe you, stud?"

"I'd say sixty should cover it. This time. What's your collar size?"

"Excuse me?"

He looks truly confused now, scrambling back into his underwear, chest bare beneath his unbuttoned shirt, and Jim has the kamikaze urge to laugh again, his feelings all cut free and careening. "I thought I'd spend this session's earnings on buying you a decent shirt."

" _This_ session?"

"I mean, if you don't want to do this again. If you can't afford to..."

"I can afford to." Harvey says, quickly. He drops his hands to his sides.

"Good. Because I'm saving up." Jim studies his face for a reaction. Sees only confusion. Not a shred of hope. “I thought that maybe if I earn enough from these sessions of ours, I could take you out to dinner. Someplace nice.”

Harvey stares at him. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“That’s not a ‘no’.”

The couch dips, creaking, as Harvey sits next to him. “You think you could stretch to some tickets to the game then, too, Midnight Cowboy?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Harvey still hasn’t buttoned his shirt. He looks lost, but his expression is softer, more open again, and that urge to kiss him that Jim just knows he’s never going to shake now, is back. “That depends on how much you’re willing to pay.”

It’s Harvey who closes the distance between them and kisses him. This time, Jim closes his eyes and just feels it, deep and slow and delicate, Harvey’s hand gentle at the nape of his neck. When they part, this time it’s Jim who leans after Harvey. Who gazes longingly at his lips, as Harvey pulls back and says, with a smile, "Hey - what's wrong with my shirts?"


End file.
